


Piecewise Interpolation

by Fritillary



Category: Myst Series
Genre: Gen, Spoilers for Myst IV: Revelation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritillary/pseuds/Fritillary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The children of Atrus celebrate his birthday in different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piecewise Interpolation

**Author's Note:**

> Three memories of Atrus 's birthday through the years - Following some confusion, I'd like to clarify these are not all occuring on the same day. Although the timelines for Myst are a little convoluted, Yeesha's memory is first (occuring halfway between Exile and Revelation), followed by Achenar's (two or three years later) and lastly Sirrus's (another few years later, shortly after the start of Revelation, while the Stranger is unconscious).

_(Interpolation:  a method of constructing new data points within the range of a discrete set of known data points. The piecewise interpolation method is to locate the nearest known data value, and assign the same value to both the new and old points. ~Wiki.org)_  
   
 **Piecewise Interpolation**

 **#Phase One#**  
Clasping the steaming mug before her in both hands, Yeesha took careful steps across the kitchen balcony and over the bridge. She'd always enjoyed the gentle sway of the chains holding the moving parts in place over the lake but this time she didn’t dare put the usual spring in her steps and feel the planks move - Mother had given her a duty to fulfil. It had taken much pleading on Yeesha's part and now it was up to her to show how grownup she could be.  
   
The hot liquid sloshed fitfully around close to the rim of the container as she stepped onto the far balcony and Yeesha, staring intently at her burden, slowed to the pace of an elderly snail. Mother had cooled the drink with milk before letting her carry it, so spilling it wouldn’t harm her, but Yeesha was determined to not lose a single drop.  Her toes touched the edge of the raised step up to her parents’ room and the little girl paused to look contemplatively at the double doors. The mirrored glass reflected her small frown back at her as she eyed the door handle over the top of the mug - both hands were occupied with her precious burden, so how to open the door?  
   
Atrus opened his eyes sleepily and watched as the door to the bedchamber opened to reveal his five year old daughter, who, to her father's bemusement, gazed intently around the room before hefting his heavy journal from the desk and using it to jam open the door. As she disappeared back outside - her delicate brow still creased in determined concentration, Atrus pushed himself upright in bed and reached for his glasses.  
   
Almost immediately, Yeesha returned, this time holding a large ceramic mug carefully in both hands. She shuffled across the floor, step by step to her father's bedside, frowning seriously at the contents of the mug the entire way. Still rather confused by his daughter's efforts, Atrus reached out to take the mug from her. As he lifted it away, the sweet scent of its contents assailed his nose.  Yeesha's scowl lessened - her gaze moving from the mug up to his face for the first time since entering the room - and then melted completely into a beaming smile.

“Happy Birthday, Daddy.”

 **#Phase Two#**  
Quiet, no footsteps now; it’s still just about light and my dearest little sister may not even be in her room. She told me last week during her visit that Mother was to be visiting the D’ni survivors in Releeshahn today; keeping out the way while Father took time from his work on Rime to show round an old friend of his.  I’d wondered who it could be until Yeesha had spoken of the return of Father’s Myst book – I’d quite forgotten that interfering busybody. Not that I shall forget again, as that irritatingly conscientious trickster is  going to be first on my list to... ‘speak with’, once my plans for little Yeesha are complete and Father is permanently out the way, of course. Interestingly, try as I might, I cannot recall a name to go with the face glimpsed so long ago through the Spire’s Link to Myst. Perhaps I never knew it? No matter. Father will take them to Releeshahn I expect, maybe even back to Myst to reminisce on old times – something the historian in Father adores almost as much as the sound of his own voice.  
   
The bridge from the main bedroom clicks and creaks as it swings round. The noise, unobtrusive as it might be over the gentle hush of the distant waterfall, makes my spine itch in irritation. Why is it, when he has all the wonders of the D’ni Writing at his fingertips, can Father never make a machine that does not stutter or creak or (Yahvo* forbid) even explode?  
   
As I creep carefully onto the kitchen balcony and operate the switch to swing the bridge around to the lower level, the calendar on the wall by the kitchen entrance catches my eye. Is that really the date? Perhaps the registering of days on Tomahna is different to that of Spire. I have never lived here so I cannot tell (Father would never have built such an oasis of calm for his disobedient sons) but I do not think so. Father and Mother’s visits to Spire were always punctual, something which a discrepancy in the rate at which time passed would have made far more difficult, even if measuring the passing of ‘days’ in Spire’s perpetual night is already complex. Indeed, I spent some months cataloguing the constellations and lunar cycles on Spire in order to obtain knowledge of its system, but I have been unable to quench a yearning to study the basis that must underlie the rotation of the planet below the floating palace.** Perhaps a look at the descriptive book for the Age would provide a...  
   
NO! No. Such distractions are futile. Spire is no longer my concern, no longer my prison.

"Happy Birthday, Father. What a surprise I have in store for you."  
   
    
 **#Phase Three#**  
You lost track of the days ages ago. It didn’t matter at first; you’d always been a more of a live-in-the-now kind of guy, but once the thrill of the hunt and chase had worn off it began to sink in that this was Home now, that you were stuck here, and Father and Mother were never going to let you out. (Your thrice-damned little brother would probably be laughing his head off at how long it took you to realise that, if it weren’t for the fact that he was still marooned on his own desert island of Father’s creation.)  
   
Sitting by the semi-skeletal carcas of the monster now tumbled across the sand, the days start to mean something again. You watch as the red crabs pick at the remains of flesh that the birds have left behind and sidle over to investigate if you are another helpfully decomposing meal. A nudge with your foot sends them scurrying back to shelter. You wander the beach, reading the loose leaves from your journal and trying to gauge the number of days between each entry, working it out backwards, although as you’re uncertain of the date you left Myst it’s all pretty vague anyway.  How long have you been here? Must have been a few months at least, years even? You’re not sure about the last one; the humid heat of the jungle never seems to change. Only the slightly cooler breath of night marks the passing of time.  
   
No seasons. You wonder if that means there are no years on Haven. Can you have years with no beginning or end? You don’t know. Sirrus would know, or Father, if they were here... You don’t want them here though. They’d spoil it. Father would scowl and rave about you killing the creatures, destroying the natural balance of the Age. And Sirrus would want to dissect everything and take charge, build things in the middle of the swamp just to see if he could. Actually, a building in the swamp isn’t a bad idea , if only to keep the camoudiles and those Yahvo*-cursed bug-eyed monkeys out of your stores. You think you could probably get used to the stagnant smell.  
   
You’ve finally worked up to the current (-ish) date in your journal, and... really? Hmm. You know you’re stuck here, that he trapped you here with his guileless smile and stories of Haven’s bounty, but you’ve found that you aren’t angry anymore. You haven’t been angry really since the Monster died, pools of dark blood staining the sand. Almost like it had been  your monster. The one in your head that made those things Sirrus said seem so much more real, so much worse, that made Mother cry and Father...  
   
"Father... Happy birthday. Forgive me."  
  


**Author's Note:**

> *Yahvo is the “god” of the d’ni. Despite Sirrus’ belief in his own superiority, I don’t think he would have totally abandoned childhood teachings of a higher power, in fact I think Sirrus would be the last of the family to give up the small amount of faith he has because he needs the possibilities of prophecy and destiny to be true more than any of the others (Yeesha and Atrus would rather none of it was true).  
> **I can totally see Sirrus writing an entire scientific thesis on the weirdness that is Spire.... I can totally see MYSELF writing a scientific thesis on Spire. Oh dear...  
> 


End file.
